Art of Sin: Illusions Duet : Book One

by Halloran, L. M.

  He watches me retreat with a mirthless smile on his lips, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “Why?” I demand in a low voice. “Did you come here just to test me? To see if I had you under surveillance? If your goal was to force me outside my comfort zone, you’ve failed. I don’t have one.”

  “That’s interesting, because from where I’m standing, you look extremely uncomfortable.”

  My lips curl back from my teeth. “I’m not playing whatever twisted game you’ve devised. You signed a contract, and I expect you to adhere to the rules of that contract. If you can’t, I’ll tear it up right now.”

  Shocking me, he merely nods. “Okay. I’m not participating tonight, Deirdre. And Crossroads is very discreet. I’ll leave the back way.”

  Hesitating, I search for signs he’s lying. Then something occurs to me. “You’re admitting you came in from the street because you knew I’d get an alert?”

  Gideon’s head tilts. “What would you think if I said yes?”

  “It would merely confirm what I already think—that you’re a petulant man-child.”

  He chuckles. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun.” Taking two steps toward me, close enough that the heat from his body radiates onto mine, he stares down at me with a smile that can only be classified as sinister. “I want you at my house Sunday morning. Nine o’clock. Wear loose clothing and expect to stay for the full three hours.”

  Fuck.

  “Fine,” I snap. “But I’m bringing Maggie with me.”

  His head dips toward mine. I stand my ground, regretting it when I end up with his mouth millimeters from my cheek.

  “Bring whomever you want,” he whispers. “However many you want. I like an audience.”

  I recoil, stepping back and sucking in a breath.

  “You may be beautiful when you smile, Ms. Moss, but you’re a vision when you’re enraged. Expect me to anger you continuously for the next six months.”

  Leaving me to sputter, he walks away.

  * * *

  When I was a child and couldn’t sleep because of the noises in the trailer, I would imagine myself encased in the roots of a gigantic tree. Deep in the earth, my cocoon would keep me warm and safe.

  There would be no violence, no screaming, no men with scary eyes. Time’s passage wouldn’t affect me—I was timeless and bodiless, one with the slow pulse of water and sap, with the tiny bugs and earthworms.

  I imagined the scene so often growing up that in my adult life, it reappears in my dreams. Not often, and only when something happens to make me feel unsafe. Something that draws that young, frightened version of me to the surface.

  Tossing and turning in my bed that night, the timbre of Gideon’s parting words in my ears, I have the dream. But this time—for the first time—I’m not alone.

  7 confusion

  When Gideon’s front door opens at 9:00 a.m. on the dot Sunday morning, I blink in surprise. The stranger smirks, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. He’s attractive but rough-looking, with colorful tattoos down the length of both arms and one peeking up from the collar of a faded black T-shirt. Shaggy brown hair, low-slung jeans, and bare feet complete the image of No Fucks Given.

  “What are you supposed to be, her bodyguard?” he asks me.

  I glance at Maggie, who looks equally puzzled. “What? We’re here to see Gideon.”

  “Oh, I know.” Crystal blue eyes shift from me to Maggie and give her a lazy perusal. “He definitely has a type, doesn’t he?”

  Maggie is beautiful, slim, and Asian. I put two and two together and come up with a mental image of Lucy Linn, Gideon’s ex-wife.

  It bothers me. More than it should.

  From the corner of her mouth, Maggie whispers, “Um, what the heck is going on?”

  I take a purposeful step forward, blocking Maggie from view and standing toe-to-toe with the man. He smells better than I expected, woodsy and fresh, and up close his face is achingly handsome. The kind of handsome that shows up on billboards and runways.

  “I’m Deirdre Moss. Who the hell are you?”

  Surprise opens his eyes wide. “No shit? You’re Deirdre? Color me shocked. You are definitely not his type.”

  Maggie snaps, “Then he’s an idiot. Let us in, Idiot 2.0.”

  The man smiles, eyes glittering on mine. “I didn’t say she wasn’t my type.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I mutter.

  He laughs and sticks out a hand. “I’m Finn, a friend of Gideon’s.”

  I shake his hand and release it quickly. “What are you doing here?”

  His brows lift. “Damn, you’re a ballbuster, aren’t you? I’m here to photograph you. Gideon is shit with a Nikon.”

  Copper teases my eye and I look past Finn to see Gideon walking toward the front door. Bastard.

  “This wasn’t a part of the agreement,” I say when he’s within earshot.

  He steps up beside Finn. They trade a meaningful glance before Gideon fixes his gaze on me.

  “You never asked who’d be photographing you. Hello, Maggie. Nice to see you again.”

  “Y-you, too.”

  I don’t blame her for stuttering; it isn’t every day you learn you’re the preferred meat of a dangerous carnivore.

  “Come on in,” Gideon says, opening the door farther. “Finn, is everything set up in the studio?”

  “Yep.”

  Maggie and I follow the duo down an airy hallway. Overhead skylights brighten the space, calling attention to the paintings hung at intervals. They’re abstract, lacking subjects, but from my online research I easily recognize Gideon’s style.

  Bright. Bold. Provocative.

  We turn a corner and Gideon glances at me. “Do you need to use the restroom?”

  I shake my head instead of answering, unsure of my voice. I’m so tense I doubt I could pee even if I wanted to. Gideon nods, his demeanor all business, and gestures for me to follow Finn.

  He leads us into a huge, blindingly white box. The only color is to my right, where an array of canvases occupy easels or lean against the wall. Paint-spattered drop cloths line the floor beneath the area. Directly ahead of me, floor-to-ceiling windows let in an obscene amount of light.

  A tripod with a massive, professional camera is set up in the center of the room facing a pristine white wall. On the ground before the wall is a black X.

  I hear Finn’s voice as if from far away, “She’s gonna bail.”

  “No, she won’t,” says Gideon from behind me. “She just needs a minute.”

  Maggie steps to my side. “You’re really pale,” she whispers. “Do you need to sit down?”

  If I need anything, it’s a fucking teleportation machine. Shaking my head, I take a few deep breaths. I don’t look at Gideon to assess his enjoyment of the moment, but I don’t need to. This entire situation reeks of careful manipulation.

  Fuck that.

  My vision clears as my minor dissociative episode is swept away by defiance. I look at Finn, standing uncertainly by the tripod. He, at least, doesn’t seem to be taking any pleasure in my discomfort.

  “What do I do?” I ask him.

  His expression shifts to surprise tinged with respect. “I’ll be taking a range of shots today. The goal is to capture you from as many positions and angles as possible. We’ll start with basic front and back, then take a break, then we’ll do the posing.”

  His calm, professional tone does wonders for my blood pressure, and my overall opinion of him. Nodding, I walk toward the X.

  “You’re forgetting something, Snowflake,” murmurs Gideon.

  I stop walking, turning to meet his amused gaze. Knowing it won’t work, I still try. “I’m wearing a two-piece bathing suit. I don’t have to be naked.”

  Maggie and Finn fade into the background as Gideon strides toward me. Stopping so close I have to crane my neck to keep eye contact, he stares down at me with an unreadable expression.

  “Does Finn make you uncomfortable?”
he asks, breathing the words to keep them private.

  Finn isn’t the problem.

  “No,” I say with more calm than I feel. “In fact, why don’t you and Maggie go get some coffee or something. It would be helpful for her to hear your perspectives on publicity. What you want, don’t want, et cetera. She’ll be the one writing content for various outlets.”

  Gideon licks his lips and finally nods. “Good idea.” As he turns away, he throws back, “As long as Finn gets the shots he needs, you can leave the bathing suit on.”

  By the time I overcome my surprise enough to say thank you, he and a blushing Maggie have left the room.

  “That was tense,” says Finn, grinning from behind his camera. “Maybe you’re his type, after all. Sorry about your luck.”

  I roll my eyes. “You should be pitying him, not me. Gideon has no idea who he’s messing with.”

  Finn laughs, the sound bright and easy, and my opinion of him grows again. “I have a feeling you might be right. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  With a deep breath that fills my lungs with the scent of dried paint and faint turpentine, I reach for the hem of my dress. Short and loose on purpose, it comes off easily. I toss it past Finn and make my way to the X.

  Planting my feet on the tape, I look up to find Finn staring at me, expression slack with horror. “Deirdre…”

  Having prepared myself for this moment, I smile tightly. “Too bad for Mr. Starving Artist, he didn’t think to ask about deformities.”

  Finn frowns. “That’s not—”

  “Open for discussion,” I finish sharply.

  He studies me another few moments, then nods. “You’re right, I apologize. Ready? Just a forewarning—when I’m in the zone I tend to bark orders. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I won’t. Fire away.”

  8 arrogance

  An hour later, we take our first break. For basically standing around following orders, I’m surprisingly exhausted. Finn waits for me to pull on my dress, then guides me to the kitchen and grabs a couple of water bottles from the huge, industrial-sized fridge. Handing me one, he leans against a counter and checks his phone.

  Another surprise—how comfortable I felt having Finn photograph me in the tiny, nude, sorry excuse for a bathing suit I picked up yesterday. After our initial hiccup when he saw my back and stomach, he spoke nothing of it. He’s obviously good at his job, easy to accommodate, and can maintain the boundary between business and pleasure. Unlike his friend. I actually feel a little bad about my first assessment of him when he answered the door.

  Finn’s fingers are busy sending a text or email, so I take in our surroundings as I finish my water. The kitchen opens into a spacious living room, both areas done in a muted color palette of white, dove gray, and chocolate. The kitchen counters are white marble veined subtly with gray, and the appliances gleam like they’ve never been used.

  It’s elegant but also bleak, little or no signs of everyday life. No forgotten shoes on the floor or receipts on the counters. No knickknacks in the living room or books on the coffee table. Only one painting occupies the otherwise white walls—a monstrous, abstract piece of red and black above the fireplace.

  “How long has Gideon lived here?” I ask, staring at the empty shelves of a built-in unit near a huge, dark flat-screen.

  Finn snorts. “From the looks of it, you’d think a few weeks, right?” I nod, turning my attention back to him. “It’s been about four years.”

  When I stare open-mouthed, he laughs.

  “As long as I’ve known him, he’s been pretty much an ascetic.” He glances into the living room, a small frown furrowing his brow. “But Lucy cleaned house. Literally. Took everything she could pay someone to carry.”

  “Huh,” is all I say.

  Finn tucks his phone away. “Gideon should be back in a few minutes. Do you need a snack or anything while we wait?”

  I shake my head. “Why do we need to wait for Gideon?”

  Finn gives me an odd look. “Because he’s going to do the posing. I hope you’re limber, because I’ve seen him pretzel people before.”

  Fuck.

  As I’m considering making a hasty escape courtesy of fake menstrual cramps, we hear the front door open and Maggie’s laughter.

  Finn smirks. “Sounds like they’re getting along.”

  “Sounds like,” I return flatly, then toss my water bottle in a nearby recycling bin.

  Gideon and Maggie walk into the kitchen, their shoulders brushing. Both of them smiling. I’m annoyed by their easy rapport, jealous for a reason I don’t care to name, and further irritated by my irrational response.

  “I take it you had a productive meeting?” I ask archly.

  Maggie blushes. “Yes, actually. I think I have a firm grasp on presenting Gideon in his best light.”

  Finn guffaws, tossing his bottle down by mine. “You ready, G?”

  Gideon nods, his gaze finally finding my face. He hesitates, head tilting. “Are you ready?”

  Nope.

  I push off the counter with bravado I don’t feel. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Do you need me to stay?” asks Maggie, uncertain gaze bouncing between me and Gideon.

  “It’s fine,” I lie. “I’ll Uber home.”

  It doesn’t feel fine. It feels dangerous. But I’m powerless over my recklessness in this moment, my willful flirtation with the edge of reason.

  I’d thought this version of myself dead and buried, but here it is, bucking beneath my skin like a caged beast.

  “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

  My calm, firm tone has the desired result.

  She leaves.

  * * *

  He’s touching me. Confident, strong hands. Warm and dry. I can smell his skin, feel the electric current of his body teasing mine. We’re so close I can count the faint freckles on his nose as he guides my arms over my head, twists my hips slightly, and arches my back. He’s frowning in concentration, brows furrowed deeply and eyes squinted. Lower lip between his teeth, the top lush and pink.

  I’m terrified he can smell my arousal. Terrified of my response to him when he’s doing absolutely nothing but moving my limbs, his touch platonic.

  Of all the fucking men on the planet.

  Satisfied at last, Gideon nods to himself and steps back. His gaze is distant as it scans me, seeing me not as a woman but a living manikin.

  Caramel eyes flash to mine. “Don’t move.”

  I nod and glance at Finn, standing upright behind the camera. His blue gaze flickers down my body, expression tight. Instinct makes me look down—the sight of my hardened nipples through thin fabric ignites a fire of embarrassment beneath my skin. And when I glance back up, the heat in Finn’s eyes is unmistakable.

  Gideon moves into position beside Finn. Taller, bigger, brighter. A lion next to a wolf. They watch me, both hungry in different ways. Finn wants my flesh, but Gideon may very well want my soul.

  Posed on the edge of fear and ecstasy, I gasp air into my lungs. “Can’t stand like this forever, guys.”

  Finn finally recovers, shooting an inscrutable look at Gideon before disappearing behind the lens. Minutes and a series of clicks later, I get the nod from Gideon to relax. My arms burn as I lower them; my legs ache as I shake out tense muscles.

  “I think that’s good for today.” Gideon speaks from behind the tripod, his finger clicking through the recent images. Looking up, he grins at Finn. “Thanks.”

  Finn nods back, unsmiling. “I’ll have a flash drive for you by the end of next week.”

  “That’s fine.” Gideon wanders over to his cluttered studio, bare feet whispering across the drop cloths. Not looking back, he says, “Will you stay for a minute, Deirdre?”

  I pause with my dress over my head, then pull it on. Finn ignores us, breaking down his equipment with practiced ease.

  “Uh, sure.”

  My former boldness gone, I have to force my feet to trace Gideon�
�s steps across the room. The texture of the drop cloth is unexpected, rough after the smoothness of concrete, with points of pressure from dried paint splatters.

  Gideon stares at a blank canvas while Finn finishes packing up. He offers me a wave goodbye, expression oddly remote. Then he’s gone, and I’m alone with the lion.

  “You didn’t tell me about the scars. Why not?”

  Too tired to be offended or embarrassed, I laugh instead. “Why risk you pulling out of the contract before signing?”

  He turns, eyes deep pools of speculation. “I wouldn’t have.”

  I shrug, wishing the words didn’t bring me such relief. “Then what does it matter?”

  “How did you get them?”

  I arch a brow. “None of your business.”

  His expression hardens. “From today on, everything about you is my business. What you eat and drink, who you fuck, what you dream about, what you think about late at night when you’re alone.”

  I stiffen with anger. “Go fuck yourself, Gideon. You don’t own me.”

  Gideon takes a step toward me then stops, frowning at me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces. Trent was right—this man is a cypher. Impossible to read, predict, or understand.

  Is he a sociopath?

  I stand my ground, arms crossed, because I’ve faced worse men. Much worse than Gideon Masters.

  “I saw cigarette burns,” he says softly. “A stab wound on your chest. Did it pierce a lung?”

  Visions of Nate’s tear-streaked face flash in my mind. Sirens and lights. Screaming. It wasn’t the first time I almost died. But it was the last.

  “I’m not doing this,” I snap as I head for the door.

  He catches me on the threshold, his fingers seizing mine and spinning me toward him. The next thing I know, his other hand is gently cupping my face. He stares down at me, his eyes haunted, full of regrets and secrets. It might be the first time he’s shown me the man behind the mask.